Barefoot at the Emmys: A Plus-One Confession

I went barefoot at the Emmys. Not as a statement. My shoes were just too small. They were gorgeous gold Roger Vivier open-toed slingbacks, a Housing Works find in New York. “It’ll be fine,” I told myself, ignoring that telltale pinch. After ten minutes on the red carpet I was hopping between camera crews and gowns, shoes in hand. Thankfully it was such a crush no one noticed.

But let me back up. I’d spent weeks editing my book, vaguely assuming the outfit would sort itself out. The clothes I’d packed up and sent from London to New York by way of Dublin, where the Actor was filming, got stuck in Irish customs. Two weeks before the Emmys, I had nothing. Not a dress, not shoes, nothing.

I tried on every dress in every shop in New York City. In my mind each one told a different, unflattering story: mother of the bride, prostitute who has seen better days, or Mormon wife in an end-of-days cult. Disaster, all of them. Under the changing-room lights, why is the lighting always so harsh? it was a lesson in radical self-acceptance, or possibly self-delusion. For a moment I considered going as Patti Smith. Then remembered that look only works if you are, in fact, Patti Smith. So I did what everyone does: panic-bought dresses online at 2 a.m.

Clothes are never just clothes. They’re identity, brand, confession. Amal Clooney arrives on George’s arm in couture that reads as gravitas because she has the résumé to anchor it. Liz Hurley’s safety-pin dress,worn as Hugh Grant’s date, was unforgettable because it was funny and fearless. These women arrive with public power sewn right into the label. I arrive with my plus-one wristband and the hope that my zipper holds.

On my way to LA, via Idaho for a wedding and Montana to visit a friend, I stumbled into a vintage shop in Bozeman. Rare vintage in Bozeman! Who knew? The shop was run by a mother–daughter duo. Olivia, the daughter, told me she was bullied in conservative Montana for dressing up. Instead of blending in, she rebelled, using clothes to express herself on her own terms. I loved that. It made me feel like maybe my dress wasn’t just an act of desperation, but a choice with a story. Maybe my daughters might be proud of me for it. And it’s true: when you feel unconfident, clothes can sometimes give you the confidence you don’t have yet. You follow the clothes until you catch up.

This was the Actor’s first Emmy nomination and my first American awards show. The red carpet heaved with bodies. Stars zigzagged back and forth like bumper cars, publicists steering them towards cameras or away from rivals, each trying to get ahead of the crush, or to slip just behind it.

The big secret is that all this attention is bought. Publicists, stylists, “handlers”, a whole industry devoted to engineering visibility. You can spot them instantly because they all wear black. That’s the Emmy rule: only attendees wear colour. Everyone else is meant to disappear. The whole event is like that, the people who keep it afloat are invisible, holding it together with sticky-back plastic. I spend a lot of time with those people in black. I know it’s their job to be nice to me, but still, I’m grateful.

The Actor looked handsome in Armani. I capitulated to Mango. Yes, Mango. After all the desperation in New York, the vintage triumph in Montana, the panic-buys at 2 a.m., it was fast fashion that won. I did at least go vintage with my accessories. Apart from the bare feet, I felt pretty good. Looking around the carpet, though, I realized I’d been playing the wrong game entirely.

The best-dressed by far were RuPaul’s drag queens and the queer people. The drag queens were going for maximum drama, sexy, cool, and stylish all at once. The queer folks dressed with a wink, sharp suits, perfect tailoring, a flash of humour that turned getting dressed into politics. In a country that is weaponising their very existence, they showed up looking fucking amazing. They were the ones truly subverting the whole glossy narrative, turning red carpet conformity into a playground. Hunter Schafer looked otherworldly, shimmering and surreal, and when she greeted the drag queens it was like watching family reuniting on the carpet. Kristen Kish arrived with her wife, both of them radiant, reminding me that queer visibility can be glamorous and grounded at once. And then there was Megan Stalter, in jeans and a white T-shirt, her bag turned into a protest sign. A lesbian comic dressed like she was meeting friends at a dive bar and somehow the coolest of all.

Though the real heart of the weekend wasn’t in sequins or stilettos it was the day before in a local Italian restaurant in West Hollywood, at a Creative Coalition lunch where the Actor was honored alongside Natasha Rothwell, John Turturro, Jon Gries, Judith Light, and Skye P. Marshall. It’s a clever operation, flatter a few actors, get the room buzzing, then remind everyone why they’re really there: to support the only national organization still fighting for arts funding in America. The Coalition is battling for the NEA, for libraries, for arts in schools, life-changing stuff for poor kids who might never otherwise hold a book or step on a stage. The speeches were beautiful, of course, they’re actors, but what stayed with me was the sense of urgency: this fight matters.

And then came the main event: the ceremony itself which was surreal from start to finish. Every commercial break the entire room leapt up to chat, while seat-fillers, unpaid lottery winners, rushed into our places. The man next to me was an A&E doctor and a huge White Lotus fan.The irony of Noah Wyle winning an Emmy for playing a doctor in the Pit while the real one was downgraded to seat-holder was somthing I did not know what to do with.

The joy of the night was with the Brits. We were clustered together, and every time someone won we leapt to our feet. Amie Lou Wood shouted, “The northerners are killing it!” as Stephen Graham and Hannah Walters won for Adolescence. Alan Cumming accepted his Emmy with the kind of wit and grace that always rises to the occasion. When queer winners thanked their partners, it landed as a political statement.

The White Lotus won nothing. They rechristened themselves the White Losers. I kept saying it’s better to be a loser, much more interesting. But what would I know? I’ve never won anything.

The rest of the night was queues: endless lines for enormous cars to whisk us off to parties. In one, someone handed me slippers, perhaps the best gift I’ve ever received. We managed to arrive at every party just as everyone we knew was leaving. Another reminder that in the entertainment industry when you get there, there’s actually no “there” there.

On the way home, in the back of the car, the Actor recited the acceptance speech he’d prepared, just in case. It was funny and sweet and made me love him just a little bit more. So I suppose I was a winner that night after all.